


i see you all over me (in my head)

by akaparalian



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2047884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't happen all at once; it's gradual, which is probably why it's so surprising when one day after skate Gabe not only catches Erik staring at him from across the locker room, but also a loud, kind of despairing <i>Yep, he's still hot</i> that's - definitely EJ's voice. Except. In his head. Which is not where EJ's voice is supposed to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i see you all over me (in my head)

**Author's Note:**

> Is there... any way to pretend I didn't title this with lyrics from a Jason Derulo song? No? Okay. (IT WAS THE FIRST THING I THOUGHT OF. I'M SORRY.)
> 
> In other news, this is the fic that took my kink meme virginity! How exciting.

It doesn't happen all at once; it's gradual, which is probably why it's so surprising when one day after skate Gabe not only catches Erik staring at him from across the locker room, but also a loud, kind of despairing _Yep, he's still hot_ that's - definitely EJ's voice. Except. In his head. Which is not where EJ's voice is supposed to be.

"What the fuck," he says out loud, _too_ loud, and he's sort of hysterically thinking that he's going crazy, this is it, maybe the captaincy has finally dragged him around the fucking bend, and then EJ's jerking like he's been struck and their eyes are meeting wide and a little terrified across the room and _there is a voice in his head that isn't his_ , but for that exact instant it's okay, because he's pretty sure Erik's experiencing the exact same thing.

\---

Gabe drives to Erik's place instead of his own that day and they continue their freakout in a much more private setting, staring at each other sort of shiftily across Erik's kitchen table while they wait patiently for _someone_ to get their ass in gear and say something.

Finally, Gabe thinks, _fuck it,_ and clears his throat.

"So," he says, faux-casually, staring at Erik's temple because he can't quite look him in the eyes but he doesn't want to, you know, look down. Look, he's trying, okay. "So, we should. Talk about this."

"Yeah," Erik agrees quickly, his gaze flitting from the table to Gabe to the ceiling and back again like he's too antsy to settle on just one. "We should definitely do that. Talking. Yes."

Gabe stares at him incredulously for like a full five seconds, because even for a hockey player that's pretty fucking - socially inept of him, and he startles in surprise when Erik fucking _scowls_ at him when he thinks that.  
"Like you're doing much better," he snaps, and, yeah, okay, valid. But at least he's _trying_ , unlike some people. Americans, Gabe thinks tartly, and Erik's scowl gets a shade more intense but also a shade less serious.

"Fuck you, we can't all be from - Scandinavia, whatever," he sniffs, and Gabe almost laughs. Almost. He's a mature adult, and he's - the captain, he is definitely going to be the serious one in this situation. He is going to handle this weird bullshit admirably and probably not even make desperate use of the Swedish NHL phone tree (not quite on the level of the Russians yet, apparently, but they're trying) to try and figure out if this is a unique thing or if it's one of those weird sort of instances that apparently turn up a lot but just aren't talked about. Maybe one of the other guys knew a kid in juniors or something like that who had this shit going on, Gabe doesn't know. Regardless, he's going to be Mature And Responsible and keep his cool and he's _definitely_ not going to ask about - 

"You think I'm hot?" he blurts suddenly, and fuck, _fuck_ , that was not supposed to happen, what. What even. That is so not important right now. That definitely should not be a priority topic of conversation.

"That is definitely not a priority topic of conversation," Erik says, but it sounds kind of - strangled, and he looks like he's trying to ignore something really, really hard but can't quite manage it. Gabe sort of nods - of fucking course it isn't, he literally just thought that, maybe they really are just on the same wavelength after all or something - but then again something about Erik's expression does absolutely nothing to lessen his curiosity and so he just waits.

A few moments of intense cross-table stareage later, EJ breaks. "Fine," he snaps, finally having settled into staring resolutely at the table, apparently. "Yes, I think you're hot, Jesus Christ, I’d have to be stupid not to. Now can we talk about how we can hear each other's thoughts instead? I never thought I'd say this, but I'd actually really prefer that."

He has a point. Probably. He almost definitely has a point. And in about one point five seconds, Gabe is going to prove that he understands that EJ has a point by no tamping down on whatever's making him feel like a blushing preteen with a first crush and instead focusing on the problem at hand. Or… at head? Whatever. It's going to happen… now. Right now. Right _now_.

"Okay," he says finally, kind of gasping through it and giving himself a little shake to help clear his head as best he can. "Okay, yeah, so. Um. That's never… this has never happened to me before? With you or anyone else." He averts his eyes, staring at the wall behind Erik's head now, because even looking at his forehead is proving to be too much at the moment. "What about… what about you?"

"Same," Erik says, leaning back in his chair, fussing with something under the table - the hem of his shirt, maybe. "And I can't hear you right now, either."

"So you have no idea what's going on?" Gabe asks, a little desperate. "I was - uh. Kind of hoping it would be a you thing," he admits. Erik laughs, grins at him quick and weirdly soft.

"I think it's an us thing, Whitey," he points out. "But nice try."

So they spend a good few hours dicking around with it. By the time the sun is setting outside the window and the TV's low rumbling in the background has become the six o'clock news, a few things have become relatively clear:

1) They can only hear each other. They try for a long time to listen in on Erik's neighbors, but get nothing - not even the barest hint of a thought, or the lightest touch of sensory input.  
2) They can only hear one another when they're _thinking_ about each other. Erik sits and thinks about plays for about five minutes, and Gabe can only catch the bits that are about him, specifically; the picture of the ice Erik's thinking up is fuzzy and indistinct except for him, just a general outline of a rink and the unrealized suggestions of other skaters.  
3) Except then Gabe has a minor epiphany, and says, "Don't just think about it, think it _at_ me," and EJ gives him a _look_ and does a poor job of concealing the thought that says maybe Gabe's finally going around the bend, but he does do it, and suddenly where there had been foggy outlines before there's a Technicolor surround-sound display of a play they'd pulled off in a game a few weeks ago, every detail crisp and clear and oriented from where Erik had been on the bench at the time. It's such a shocking switch that Gabe gasps for breath and actually has to put his head between his knees for a few minutes, the sudden strength of Erik's memory a sensory overload that makes him vaguely nauseous.   
4) They can sort of, kind of feel it when the other person's in their head. It's like an extra little tug at the corner of their consciousness that's just alien enough to stick out, but somehow natural enough to ignore once they've noticed it in the first place. It's weird, and they can't explain it any more than they can explain the rest of this crazy shit.  
5) Distance doesn't seem to be a factor - at least, not any distance they can achieve on Erik's property, though they'll have to see if that holds, say, the next time Gabe goes to Sweden.  
6) If they can turn it on, it only makes sense that they can turn it off, too. It takes them a lot longer, and it's way more fucking frustrating, but by the time they would have both had to beg off to go get food anyway, evening bringing with it a reminder that they've been sitting here not eating anything basically since they got back from skate - and this, whatever, telepathy stuff is surprisingly physically exhausting when they go at it hardcore like this - they finally hit the point where Erik, with a vaguely constipated look on his face, asks intensely, "Okay, can you hear that?", and all Gabe's getting is blissful, blissful silence. Of course, as soon as celebrating breaks Erik's concentration for even as a second, it all comes rushing back - a million more scraps of memories of him, on and off the ice, a tidal wave of images and sensations colored by a million different emotions but with one suffuse warmth throughout the whole thing that Erik can't quite stop thinking about fast enough to keep Gabe from noticing it. 

Victory somewhat in hand, though, they decide to call it a night; Gabe shuffles into the kitchen to put his slightly superior cooking skills to work and Erik follows behind at a safe distance, then settles at the table in the breakfast nook to watch with a glass of water as Gabe bangs around trying to cobble together something that's both edible and somewhat adherent to both of their diets.

They don't say anything for a while, out loud or, uh, not-so-verbally, just sit there in companionable silence and wait for the food to be ready. Even when they eat, trying to pretend they're not both silently freaking out and staring at each other out of the corners of their eyes the entire time, they do so in silence, and Erik's either practicing his blocking or very carefully schooling his thoughts, because Gabe doesn't get more than the barest whisper the entire time.

Finally, when he's done eating, he leans back in his chair and looks across the table consideringly. "So," he says slowly. "We still haven't talked about how you think I’m hot."

Erik _glares_ at him. It's not just a glare; it's a _glare_. "Have so," he grumbles, and this would all be very adorable, a bit like a kitten that thinks it's a tiger or something (oh God, he _really_ hopes Erik didn't hear that one), if Gabe weren't genuinely very curious about this.

"No, you've been doing something that really looks like denial," he counters. "We haven't actually talked about it, and I want to know why." He leans forward now, part of the way across the table, and notes the way EJ looks caught between leaning forward to meet him and leaning back to get away, and remains frozen in place as a result.

He hears an _Oh God, he's not going to let this drop, is he?_ in a tone that sounds distinctly like panic, but doesn't acknowledge it. "Look," he presses, "if it's just - I don't know, an aesthetics thing, or whatever, just tell me. You know I get a lot of that," and he's grinning, trying to lighten the mood, but EJ just scowls a little more, refusing to quite meet his eyes.

There's a pregnant pause, a few seconds longer than it feels like it should be and vastly uncomfortable for all involved, and then Erik stops even trying to pretend to meet his eyes and looks down at the table and mumbles something that kind of sounds like it might but, "It's not just an aesthetics thing."

"So… what is it then?" Gabe asks, slowly, carefully, not sure how far he can push this envelope but knowing that he's got to figure out what's going on here sooner or later.

Erik makes an annoyed huffing noise and apparently finally finds the motivation to glare across the table at Gabe, meeting him square in the eyes. "Jesus, Whitey, what d'you want me to say?" he asks, tone both sharp and somewhat strangled. "I'm into you, all right? I'm sorry. I know you're not - whatever, the point is, I’m sorry. I didn't mean for it to ever come up, I didn't want to drag you into it, but it's not like I was expecting any of this crazy mind-reading bullshit, which I'm still not convinced isn't some kind of hallucination we're sharing, by the way." He raises his eyebrows, like he's daring Gabe to respond to that, and Gabe feels this enormous surge of affection that he's really hoping is transferred through the crazy mind-reading bullshit, as Erik so eloquently put it.

"Who says I'm not anything?" he answers quietly, and watches the way Erik's eyes go huge and round and kind of terrified. 

Erik swallows and purses his lips. "Uh. Well, how was I supposed to know that?" he says, and Gabe rolls his eyes.

"Asking would be a good place to start," he points out, and Erik's eyes travel down to the table again as the scowl, shit, starts to come back in place of his expression of slack-jawed surprise. "But that's not the point," he adds quickly, and Erik glances back up at him, eyebrows raised.

"And the point is…?" he asks, hands knotting and unknotting in his lap, a nervous tic that Gabe knows well enough now to recognize from the slight movements of his arms even though his hands are hidden by the table.

Gabe grins at him, wide and sunny, and leans even farther forward across the table, as far as he can go without actually getting up out of his chair, rewarded by Erik finally leaning forward to meet him - minutely enough that it's probably not a conscious thing, but it's there all the same. "The point is," he says, his mind filled with so many giddy swooping thoughts that he's sure Erik _must_ be hearing at least some of them, "I think you're pretty hot too, EJ."

\---

So, naturally, they have telepathy-enhanced sex.

Turns out, when you can hear your partner's thoughts, they can choose to _share their orgasm_ with you; that alone makes Gabe fervently hope that whatever's going on, it doesn't wear off for a good long while.

There's also the fact that they both spend the entire encounter beaming ridiculously gooshy, warm things at each other both intentionally and not; also, it turns out it makes a first time much less awkward when the other person's in your head, telling you indirectly exactly what they like and what they don't often before you've even done it. All in all, it's pretty fucking spectacular - possibly the best sex Gabe's ever had, actually, and no one even got fucked. They end up curled up together in Erik's bed, a ridiculously large California king that does admittedly make it easier to roll around and tangle their limbs together and rub up against each other entirely gracelessly but also entirely wonderfully. They're both sort of sweaty and gross and neither of them really has that much experience with other guys but it's still incredible, and Gabe thinks (quietly, to himself, though he half-hopes Erik hears it anyway) that maybe that's not just because of the mind-reading. Maybe it really is a them thing, like Erik had said earlier.

At any rate, they lie there for way too long before either of them can be assed to clean up, and then sort of stumble into the bathroom together and shower sleepily and contentedly before stumbling back to the bedroom and nodding off pretty quickly; it seems that in addition to orgasm-sharing, they can share drowsiness, too, at least when they're warm and sated and wrapped around each other like limpets. 

The next morning, Gabe wakes up with Erik pressed up against his back, snoring softly in his ear, and it's - everything he tried to pretend he wasn't thinking about every night on the road, and every time he looked down the ice and saw Erik there with that fierce, kind of hunted look in his eyes, and it's every second of the past three years of his life where he's been quietly, quietly hoping for something he didn't ever think he could have.

All of a sudden he notices that the snoring's stopped and that Erik's breathing way too fast to be asleep, and also sniffling a little bit, which is _adorable_ even though he kind of hates himself for thinking it. He rolls over, already smiling, and - holy _fuck_.

"Are you _crying_?" he asks, thunderstruck. "Oh my God, are you okay?"

Erik glares at him. "Shut up," he mutters, his voice a little choked. "It's because of _your_ fucking feelings, so don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like anything," Gabe replies almost automatically, reaching out across the spare centimeters of space between them to wipe gently at the corners of his eyes. "Also, are you seriously crying because I'm happy? EJ, that's so _sweet_." He's teasing. Mostly. That's his story and he's sticking to it. 

"Shut _up_ ," Erik repeats, but he can't quite cover up the way he's blushing, even with his very best grumpy morning voice. Besides, Gabe can feel the warm tingles of his reciprocated happiness as surely as he can feel his own - early evidence would seem to suggest that this thing is only getting _stronger_ as time passes; they'll have to experiment more later - so he's not fooling anybody, and judging by the look on his face he knows it. And so, even though lying in bed with a crying partner isn't usually how he likes to start his mornings, and certainly not mornings after, Gabe's hit with this sudden wave of _rightness_. In a way that he hadn't been even last night, he's suddenly immensely sure that this is the right thing for them to do. They're, at some level, supposed to be doing this; whatever reason there is for the mindreading bullshit, that's a pretty damn good reason for them to be lying here in bed together, too.

He catches himself thinking, _even if the telepathy is what started this, sort of, it's not what's going to keep it going._ And then, satisfied, as he wipes the last couple of tear-trails from Erik's cheeks and laughs at him scrunching up his nose in protest: _we're going to be okay_.


End file.
